Valentine's Billionaire Bad Boys

by M. S. Parker

  He hadn’t just been biding his time though.

  The only thing that had kept Grainger alive was Joel’s need to make sure he had all of them.

  And his desire to make sure the man suffered.

  Joel had lied, killed, cheated, and slept with the enemy, figuratively speaking, fucking his way through every last female around Grainger who could share the slightest bit of information. Killing some of the scum who stood in his way. Befriending the human garbage who flocked to the crime lord.

  Lying—lying was a way of life for him now, and had been since he was twelve. He’d cheated and stolen most of the money he’d used to buy his first piece of land, a slice of beach that Grainger had been looking at. And when Grainger had sent a man to…convince Joel to sell, Joel had killed him.

  The world wouldn’t mourn the men Joel had killed. Joel knew that. Joel, in his gut, knew that. Even if it did give him some uneasy moments, and even if it did sometimes bring him out of a restless sleep, his body soaked with sweat, his stomach roiling, the need to puke choking him.

  He’d killed, and he’d kill again if that was what it took to get rid Grainger. It was every bit as ruthless as it sounded, Joel knew.

  Grainger respected ruthlessness. It was one of the few things, other than money, the bastard did respect. And Joel had become damn near as ruthless as the man he wanted to kill.

  Sometimes—only sometimes—he had a brief flicker of regret over what he had become. Over the things he had done.

  Move in closer to Grainger, gain his trust, find out what he needed to know…and kill him.

  His sins were myriad, never mind he had committed them in the name of revenge to reach his goal, and it was a damn understandable goal.

  Of course, some might consider killing Grainger a sin as well.

  Joel didn’t.

  There was murder…and then there was justice. And the world would be a better place without that sick fuck in it anyway.

  But still, Joel wondered, once Grainger was dead, would his sins keep him awake, screaming into the night, as the self-hatred took a deep hold on his soul?

  Right now, he could ignore the voices of his conscience. Focusing on the goal made it easy to wear blinders.

  After though, once this was all over, he didn’t know how he was going to cope.

  When he had started, none of that had mattered. Nothing had mattered except reaching his goal, completing the plan.

  Until Tracy.

  For twenty years, he had operated in a vacuum, unaware of anything that didn’t pertain to the mission, uncaring of the world around him.

  Until he had seen her, seen the fear in her eyes, seen the fragile prize that Vincent Grainger kicked around like a puppy.

  One look. That was all it had taken, one look into those large, dove gray eyes, looking so lost, so battered in the delicate features of her face.

  One look—and the blinders he’d worn for twenty years were viciously, brutally jerked away, and he found himself wanting something other than vengeance.

  Something other than justice.

  Right now, she was what kept him awake at night.

  Not screaming, but sweating and hard and aching…and furious. The bruises he saw on her silken skin, the ghosts he saw in her eyes, the fear and the way she cringed when Vincent spoke to her in that low, silky, deadly tone.

  Joel hoped he wasn’t screwing up the plan, but he couldn’t take seeing one more bruise on Tracy Grainger’s lovely face. Couldn’t take seeing her move carefully, holding herself rigidly so nobody saw the pain each move caused.

  Grainger might be more into men, but he also had a thing for sadism. If he could cause pain, then he enjoyed it and he took a particular pleasure in causing Tracy pain.

  The first time Joel had seen her, she had been slowly sitting up on the floor, tears rolling down her face as she smoothed her robe over her lower body. She hadn’t moved quickly enough to hide the small traces of blood on her thighs, and she hadn’t ducked her head quickly enough for him to miss seeing the busted lip or the bruise spreading across her face like an ugly stain.

  That had been the first time Vincent had invited him to his elegant coastal mansion in Maine for a weekend of business and pleasure. Vincent operated mainly out of New York—the mansion was for play, and for the times he wanted more privacy.

  Joel had since learned that it was also Tracy’s prison.

  There had been plenty of females around, both professional and otherwise, if Joel had wanted to fuck.

  But he hadn’t.

  What he had wanted was to kill, to maim as Vincent smirked insolently down at her and slowly zipped his pants.

  Joel had watched as Vincent licked the blood from his fist, and rage had torn through him—hot, potent rage, unlike anything he’d ever felt.

  But then she had glanced at him, not at her husband, but at Joel, with those wide, frightened eyes, and for the first time in years, Joel had felt true guilt.

  Because as she sat there, bruised and shaking from her husband’s rape, he had wanted her. Not because of the violence that hung in the air, but because of her. He had looked at her, and had wanted her…and had looked at Grainger and had hated him more than he had ever hated him before.

  It shouldn’t have been possible, but it was, and as time passed, that hatred festered and grew until it was like a great, black sickness in his gut.

  So had the need. A need to feel that soft, slender body against his, to ease the fear he saw in her eyes, to hold her and promise her that she’d never know another moment’s pain, another moment’s fear.

  That had been close to two years ago, and over that time he’d seen repeats, or caught glimpses of her face before she turned away to hide more bruises.

  He wasn’t going to see another mark on her. Not ever.

  Allowing a slow, sardonic grin to curve up his mouth, Joel said, “Well? What’s your decision?”

  * * *

  Two weeks later

  Tracy sensed them approaching and part of her wished she was swimming in the ocean, instead of the warmed indoor pool. In the ocean, in some toxic, polluted lake or the piranha infested Amazon—somewhere that she could just keep swimming, and swimming.

  Someplace away from Vincent.

  At least she didn’t have to worry about him hitting her right now. Vincent had never hit her in front of another person—likely, he wouldn’t start now. He didn’t give a damn if anybody knew he beat her, if anybody knew he raped her, but he did prefer his violence to happen without prying eyes.

  But as she approached the shallow end of the pool and started up the steps, a hot flush spread up her face.

  It was Joel Lockhart, her husband’s newest partner, or would-be partner. So far, from what she knew, Joel held out, refusing the subtle gifts, and the not so subtle bribes with a disinterest that only strengthened Vincent’s desire to forge a partnership with the man.

  Moving out of the pool, she dutifully crossed to Vincent, kissing his cheek and accepting a towel from him. Her robe lay just a few feet away, but she didn’t dare move to get it, not yet.

  There was something in the air…something odd, something she didn’t like.

  Vincent turned away from her and she breathed a silent sigh of relief—maybe it was nothing.

  But then tension crawled up her spine as Vincent faced Joel and said, “I assume you already like what you’ve seen of the package. But let’s let you see the rest of it.”

  When Vincent turned around and stared at her, Tracy would have given anything, anything to have just never been born. “Take off your swimsuit, Tracy.”

  “What…?” she asked slowly, licking her lips, flicking her eyes nervously from Vincent to Joel. This was some sort of joke. Although she knew of her husband’s personal sexual preference, he always displayed an insane jealousy anytime somebody seemed to notice her as a woman.

  And he was telling her to strip? In front of Joel?

  Interest from men like Joel always inspired the w
orst jealousy in Vincent, spurring beatings and bruises that would have her hobbling around for weeks. Joel was pure male, strong and arrogant, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped with that loose, lazy stride that seemed to proclaim he owned every last inch of the land he walked on, wherever he went.

  She’d seen the hot male interest in his eyes on more than one occasion, just like she had seen the anger in his eyes the few times he had seen her with a bruise on her face. But he had never once moved in her direction—and now Vincent wanted her to strip for him?

  Vincent narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  Fear fluttered in her belly. Slowly, she reached up, peeling one black strap down, then the other, but before she pulled the suit down, she looked back at Vincent, her face hot. “Vincent, what’s going on?” she asked thickly.

  “Joel has agreed to become my partner in several future endeavors. In exchange, all he wants is you,” Vincent said, smiling. Smiling, like they were talking about getting a new car or something.

  Humiliation bloomed in her. Her skin went hot and tight and nausea roiled in her belly. He had fucking sold her? That was what this was…her, in exchange for the money and power that Joel could bring him.

  Tracy shook her head, slowly backing away. “No,” she whispered, almost soundlessly, unaware of how frightened, how tormented her eyes looked.

  Vincent moved toward her and she cowered as he raised his fist, but the blow never came.

  When Joel spoke, she finally dared to open her eyes and she saw him holding Vincent’s wrist in a grip so tight that Vincent’s fingers were going bloodless. “Mine, Vincent. Remember that, and while she’s mine…there will be no marks on her, no bruises, no rapes.”

  Vincent jerked his hand, but Joel never once let go. “I can fuck my wife when I chose—and I don’t remember me not touching her being part of the deal.”

  Joel dropped Vincent’s hand, and as he moved a little closer, she saw something in his eyes that she’d never seen before. Hate. He hated Vincent. What game was he playing?

  “You want to fuck, go fuck Jamil. Tracy’s clean…now. You both took the blood tests.” At that, Tracy’s face flamed red, remembering when the doctor had woken her out of her sleep thirteen days ago and jabbed a needle in her arm, all without saying a word. And Vincent hadn’t touched her since…how long had they been talking about this? “As long as she’s mine, you won’t touch her. I want to fuck her, not everybody else you’ve fucked.”

  “You can’t fucking tell me what to do with my wife!” Vincent shouted.

  “I can. You gave her to me. And if you think you can back out…try. I’ll fucking gut you. I get what I want, Vincent. Remember that.”

  Vincent’s face flushed an angry red, but then the color drained out of his face as he stared into Joel’s face. He meant it. And he was too fucking afraid of Joel to do what he normally would have done to somebody who threatened him. He’d tried, several times, to kill Joel. And each time, it had cost him men. Lots of men.

  Tracy didn’t know what in the hell to think as Vincent gave one terse nod before turning to face her. He couldn’t touch her…but that meant…Oh, God, she prayed. This wasn’t exactly what I meant when I asked for a way out!

  But there was no answer, divine or otherwise, just her husband moving up to take her swimsuit and ease it down over the mounds of her breasts. “How…how long?” she asked, her voice a tight, nervous whisper, jerking her eyes to meet the dark blue gaze of the man standing behind her husband.

  With his long legs splayed and his arms crossed over his chest, Joel stared at her. Those midnight blue eyes were hungry, hot as blue flame as he watched Vincent strip the black tank suit down her belly, over her hips, and push it down until it fell into a puddle around her ankles.

  A harsh sound left him and she stared at him, half terrified, as he seemed to feast on her with his eyes. They almost seemed to gleam with hunger—Joel’s dark eyes rarely showed any emotion—seeing that emotion in them, directed at her, suddenly made her feel weak.

  “For as long as I want you,” he whispered, moving closer as Vincent backed away. “Damn it, you’re lovely.”

  Automatically, she started to bring her hands up to cover herself, but then he picked up her robe and swept it over her shoulders, covering her. Nervous, she looked away and her gaze landed on Vincent’s face.

  He wasn’t looking at her, though.

  He was staring Joel with hot, avid hunger.

  She swallowed and ducked her head, but Joel caught her chin.

  He lowered his head. Overcome by fear, she went to pull back but Vincent said, “I wouldn’t…wife. He paid well enough for you. If he wants to fuck you right here, you’ll let him. You’ll do whatever he wants. You’ll fulfil his every last fantasy, give him his every desire.”

  “Ignore him.” Joel’s words were a murmur against her lips and she shivered as his mouth brushed hers. The kiss that followed was achingly gentle and it baffled her. Nothing she knew about Joel Lockhart could be called gentle. When he lifted his head, he rasped, “You’re mine now. Mine.”

  The possessiveness in his voice hit deep and she shivered once again.

  “Mine,” he said gutturally, and she shivered at the possessive, rapacious look in his eyes. His eyes stared into hers as he cupped her face, pressing a gentle kiss to her brow. “Just touching you is a fantasy, kissing you…you are my every desire. All of that, and more.”

  * * *

  It had worked.

  Joel still couldn’t believe it, damn near two weeks later as he lay behind Tracy, his cock cuddled against her ass while she slept peacefully in his arms. It would have been perfect, except for one thing.

  One miserable, horrible thing.

  Vincent had come into the room to watch them. Again.

  Tracy had seen him and froze, but Joel had simply eased her back onto the bed and moved down her body, kissing his way down until he sprawled between her legs and used his mouth on her.

  She loved that. A slow, sad smile curved his mouth. He understood why—Vincent’s only pleasure in her body was when he could hurt it.

  Stroking his hand up and down the smooth skin of her hip, he pressed his lips to her shoulder. “Not anymore, Tracy,” he promised. “Not anymore.”

  Vincent had fucked up. A man never gave away his greatest asset so easily, so blindly. Maybe Vincent hadn’t realized how much Joel had wanted her.

  His every desire…

  Those words echoed through his head and he buried his face in her hair.

  In his arms, he held what his heart had desired for years. He just hoped that once he was done with what he had to do, he could keep her.

  But even through the satisfaction, and the slightly dismayed awe that he had for her, he was afraid.

  Before, if he had fucked up and ended up dead, it would have only been his life that was lost.

  But now—if he messed up now, if Grainger somehow figured out who he was, Joel would pay. And so would Tracy.

  Chapter Two

  Tracy shook her head as Joel repeated himself. “Divorce him. File for divorce. I’ll come with you. Then I’ll take you home with me. He won’t hurt you.”

  “I can’t,” she said softly, shaking her head again. She still couldn’t fathom it—even though she was still trapped, the same way she had been before, she was happy.

  At least, happier than she had been in a very long time.

  Vincent never touched her anymore. Hardly ever spoke to her. And Joel was always there, it seemed, pampering her, coddling her, taking care of her.

  And now he was offering yet more protection—he could. He could protect her from Vincent, was possibly the only person who could.

  But she couldn’t risk it—not yet.

  As though he was following her silent train of thought, he asked, “Why not?” As he took her hand, he sat down on the rock-strewn beach, tugging her down until she cuddled on his lap. As he wrapped his arms around her, she rested her cheek on h
is chest, listening to the steady sound of his heartbeat.

  “I can’t, Joel. He’s told me what will happen if I ever try to leave…and I’ve tried. But the last time…”

  Joel knew about the last time. She’d ended up in the hospital with a broken jaw. That had been seven months ago, two months before he’d made his decision and told Vincent that he wanted his wife. And for five months, he’d had her. And she hadn’t been hurt, not once.

  Surprisingly though, he was. Hurt that she wouldn’t leave her husband for him. Even though he understood how afraid she was.

  “I won’t let him hurt you, Tracy,” he whispered against her brow, hugging her fiercely.

  “I know.” She drew back a little, and Joel felt his heart clench as she stared up at him with those big gray eyes, her soft, blonde, tousled locks framing her elfin features. “It’s not me I’m worried about.” She swallowed and he watched, rage already brewing inside him. What had Vincent told her?

  “Last time I tried to leave him, he sent a man to my mom’s house. While she was sleeping, the man raped Mama’s nurse. And he told me next time, he’d find somebody who liked them old and feeble.”

  Joel clenched his jaw, fighting back the need to bellow out the rage inside him. Quietly, he said, “I can take care of your mama, Tracy. And you. I don’t want you living in that house anymore.”

  As she tucked her head under his chin again, he felt his hopes die. But then, an insane delight ripped through him as she murmured, “Let me think about it, Joel. Okay? Just let me think…”

  He was silent for a few minutes, his head whirling with thoughts. Over the past few months, he had been making moves that would eventually bring Vincent’s world crashing down around him.

  Soon, Joel knew, he would have to make the final move. Reveal his hand, so to speak.

  When that happened, information he had been gathering would be in the hands of people who desperately wanted to bring Grainger down. Letters, memos, videotapes that Grainger was completely ignorant off, all of which would be sent to the New York City DA, the FBI, and every major news station.